Photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net (Gualbert107)Is there any reason to keep living?
Fans of Brigitte Jones got the word recently that she's been re-engineered into a widowed singleton after the passing of one of the sexiest men alive, now dead, in Helen Fielding's new novel: Brigitte Jones, Mad About the Boy.
The bloody cow just killed Mark Darcy off.
And we are supposed to accept this?
Perhaps it's not proper to shoot the messenger, but please. We didn't get to go to Brig's wedding and watch lipid-eyed Mark dutifully pick her up off the floor after her first drunken dance. We didn't get to witness the birth of their children with Mark patiently sitting through a drunken Brig popping out a wee one placenta first.
Nope. We got the shaft.
That damned Daniel Cleaver is still slithering around in the background making oily passes at anything in a short skirt -- male or female, apparently -- and Brig has taken off with a man-child before Mark Darcy is cold in his grave.
What a fucktwat that girl can be.
Now she's my age. I never wanted Brigitte Jones to be my age. I wanted her to be forever 30 and plump. Instead she's got a belly, cirrhosis and chronic pulmonary obstructive disorder.
It's true, I have not read the book.
Will I read it?
Of course. I may be old but I still have a pulse.
Perhaps Brigitte can suck the romance out of the marrow of these rickety old bones one more time.
If I know Brig, she's probably make me pee myself.
Let's us say what we're all thinking. Mark Darcy will always be 45 and beautiful, in our dreams.
And we will always be Brigitte Jones. We'll just be Brigitte Jones in Depends.